


See You Again

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Dreams, I Don't Know Anymore, M/M, Regret, Separations, Sexual Content, is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-13
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:29:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3537968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>These are the things he dreams about, after it's over</p>
            </blockquote>





	See You Again

**Author's Note:**

> prompted by texelations on tumblr with the prompt "Again, again, again" by Smashing Pumpkins  
> Many thanks to akisawana on tumblr for the Beta work

These are the things he dreams about.

He is tall, lanky-legged and broad-shouldered.

He is brown-eyed, crooked-smiled, and solid.

The shoulder pauldrons of their armor are rubbing together, so close they stand. He can smell gunpowder, he can smell the acrid tang of armor enhancements pushed up right against their limits. Freelancers know a lot about pushing up against limits. Freelancers dance on the edge of limits.

His hand is somehow warm against his through two layers of armor. Purple and green. Gold and Silver. Neither of them exactly inconspicuous.

He is North. He is York. They stand side by side. They sit together at the mess, boots brushing under the table.

He’s preternaturally blond. He’s got no eyebrows.

He’s got a bum eye. He’s got a big mouth.

He loves it when he laughs.

He runs a hand up one long calf, up, up, up past the soft skin of his inner thigh, up and the other lets his head fall back, lips pressed together to deaden any sound he might make, so he leans up and presses their lips together instead and rotates his wrist just _so_ \--

The others don’t know, and if they do, they’re not saying anything. York says outing your squad members’ bedroom hijinks to the boss is not cool, man. North points out if anyone starts that up, half the squad will go down for inter-squad fraternization. Besides, he doubts the Director cares as long as he gets results.

They make their way to the Pelican, ten minutes before transport. He can still taste him on his tongue.

“When we gonna do this again?”

He’s so tall his feet hang off the bed.

Their schedules do not always match. Training, and missions and rest time and evaluations. They do not always have time.

“Soon, I hope.”

He’s got him up against a locker, the room quiet and dark around them and the way he leans up, strains up with his whole body, demanding more and reaching up for him makes him want to press him harder against the cool metal. Makes him want to press a palm against his chest and pull back and grin, murmur something teasing and a little mean while he holds himself out of his reach. Wants to drop to his knees—

“Your hand-to-hand scores are horrible.”

“But my shotgun’s aren’t shabby.”

“C’mon. We’re gonna wrassle.”

“I’m a sniper, York! A sniper with a shield. If I’m down to hand-to-hand we’re already fucked.”

His hands ache and the bedframe creaks from his grip, hands up and braced, one leg hitched up on his shoulder so he can thrust deep.

“Like that?” he laughs down at him.

“Faster, asshole.”

He sniggers and the thrusts falter. He slams a hand against the bed in frustration, arches into it.

“What’s that about an asshole?” he asks, still sniggering.

He tightens his leg around his shoulder, around his hip, and twists. His partner’s back hits the mattress, still laughing until he pushes himself down, all the way down, again and again—

“This looks homo-erotic,” Connie remarks blandly, striding into the gym.

He grins at her, his sparring partner caught is some sort of complicated, intimate-looking headlock on the mat.

“I talk to my sister, you know,” he says, sending her a judgmental and doubting eyebrow.

“You got five minutes, wrap it up,” Connie says, sauntering away. “It’s Wash and me’s turn to play with knives.”

The door closes behind her.

“But seriously, we’re fuckin’ later, right?”

“Of course.”

Then he slips out of his grip and flips him on his back.

The light is florescent low. Privately, he thinks it makes him look green, with his pale skin, but oh, his lover’s tan skin in that light. That soft light against the curve of his spine, spreading across his scapula. The scars around his eye covered by the pillow, he always sleeps with his left down these days.

“Mark. Sync?”

“Sync.”

York washes his hair in the bathroom sink while North leans against a stall door and laughs and laughs.

Long-fingered hands in his hair and that heavy weight on his tongue. The pleasure of that soft pull, that caring, desperate, slightly bossy clutch at the short strands on the back of his neck as he slides up and down, tongue flickering—

He dreams of nights they sat up, not sleeping, coffee cooling between his palms when they could have been having sex. But worry sits, cooling and solidifying in their bellies, and they sit and don’t look at the stars instead. They don’t talk about the things sticking to their insides, the things that make them feel dirty, not really, not in any way that could have helped. Instead they sit, and get heavier and heavier, and do not sleep.

“Will I see you later?”

“Leave your door unlocked. I’ll try.”

There was no time when Tex came for him, there was only action. York only glanced back at the Mother of Invention, hoping those mostly-silent nights would add up to understanding, that somehow they were of the same mind.

“She’ll be fine,” Tex says, and he’s not sure she isn’t talking to herself. “They’ll all be fine. We’re going back.”

“Yeah,” he says.

The mission was hard and he stayed in the shower long after everyone left, everyone but North, but everyone knew North had to take care of everyone. When he finally padded in, armor left in a pile, purple and gold, green and silver, his back was to the door. The sound of water was everywhere. His hand was braced against the wall under the showerhead, but he turned at his approach. His hair had fallen out of his neat spikes, falling over his forehead. His eyes were pleased, warm on his own, but the lines around them gave him away.

“Thought you’d never get in here.”

“I’m here, now.”

He thought about what he’d say to him, as he strides through the ship. A break-in. Breaks some shit. He has his lines prepared. He’s ready with every turn, every corner, every breath. Ready for purple, ready to look up and smile. The crooked one he always falls for.

“Missed me?”

He’s ready every second until the ship crashes to some earth, until the alarms blare in earnest and he can’t wait anymore. He’s ready every second he puts the Mother of Invention behind him. There are only so many places to run. He’ll find him. They’ll see each other again.

Teeth on his lower lip, tongue licking into his mouth, they’ve had to wait too long—

He looks for him, as the ship screams around them. He finds Tex instead. He saves Tex. He saves his sister. It isn’t like he had a choice.

He’ll see him again. He knows they’ll find each other again.

Years later he’ll look down and see the flakes of purple, the flickers of gold paint on his shoulder pauldrons. He’ll stare, that familiar color worked into his suit. He’ll remember the phantom rub of another’s shoulder against his own. He’ll reach out to touch, scared it’ll come off. It won’t.

His palm is pressed against his mouth as he thrusts slowly inside him. They’ve got to be quiet, they’ve got to be quiet, they can’t afford extra attention right now. No one can afford extra attention right now, no one can afford to take the wrong risks, but they needed this. There are bags under York’s eyes, there are lines in North’s forehead and when they looked up at each other from across the Pelican bay they knew this was what they needed.

He thrusts slow and even, a banked fire of a pace, a pace that always makes him arch and plead and cry out, but they can’t afford that right now. So he fists one hand in North’s hair, sinks another into the muscle of his shoulder so hard it must be painful, and North presses his palm against his mouth, pants in his ear.

“Hold on,” he whispers. “Just hold on with me.”

But it’s too sharp, to bright, too much not enough and he’s coming apart, they’re coming apart—

He wakes in the night, shivering and hard. Sweat cooling on his skin under the armor.

“Are you all right, York?”

“It’s nothing, Delta. Nothing.”

Morning light shocks him to waking, the curtains pulled back roughly. He sits up in bed, presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. There’s a sigh of movement from across the shitty hotel room they’d gotten for the night and he doesn’t look up.

“Morning,” South says. “Breakfast is on the table. Going out for a bit.”

“Yeah,” North forces out, voice thick in his throat. He pulls the blankets up a little farther. “Yeah, fine.”

He dreams. He always wakes up.


End file.
